A Keeper Keeper
by genies
Summary: Oliver Wood holds the team together.


**Prompt: Write about someone getting injured. Kestrels Seeker.**

**WC: 1007**

Oliver Wood would stop at nothing to win the cup for Gryffindor. In fact, it was his only goal, and he wasn't sure what he was going to do after he achieved it (because Oliver Wood was stubborn enough to achieve any goal he set his mind to… eventually). What would his life's purpose be then? Probably to win the cup for next year, but he didn't think that far in advance. As far as he was concerned, Gryffindor was going to win the cup this year and every year after that. Wood often wasn't used to getting what he wanted, but he'd just grit his teeth and say something like, "next year and every year after that."

Wood would call himself persistent and unwavering in the face of challenge. Marcus Flint, his adversary on the Slytherin team, liked to call him stupid.

"When are you going to learn that you lions are really just kittens, huh?" Flint shouted across the Quidditch pitch to Wood, who was glaring at him from his position as Keeper. Flint thougt it took a certain kind of stupid to fling yourself at a flying object instead of duck away from it. But, then again, Flint didn't think Wood knew what danger was. Natural selection would get him someday. Flint was sure of it.

"Shut up, snake!" Wood went back to concentrating on the game, almost vibrating with intensity.

"That all you got? Snake? Real creative."

"Worm."

"You seriously trying to edit your insult?" Flint gripped his broom and zoomed off to get open for the Quaffle.

"Little shit!" Wood yelled after him.

So, yeah, they were good friends.

No, really. Despite Wood's general annoyance and flair for dramatics, he couldn't help but feel a bit fond for Flint. After all, they both hated each other to the point that they had something in common (or, they hated each other while playing the game, that is. Or whenever they talked about Quidditch, which was almost always).

It was probably a good thing spectators and referees couldn't hear what they were yelling all that way up in the air. Professor Mcgonagall would not be a fan of the lack of sportsmanship, but that kind of behavior is what both Flint and Wood found to be the only way to be a sportsman.

A Quaffle zipped by Wood's right, but he'd been closing the angle by hovering facing the left, so he quickly whirled his broom around and smacked it upwards. With a swoop, he flew up and caught the ball before hitting it towards his own Chaser.

He shot a look at Flint that said, "Yeah, and what about it?"

Flint just rolled his eyes, and Wood knew that it meant something like, "Whatever. Next time."

Wood triumphantly watched his Chasers dodge Bludgers and weave their way to the opposing team's goal posts. Even though this was just the first game of the season, it didn't mean that Wood was letting his team coast. They were out to _conquer_.

And… goal? Nope. The Chader that threw the Quaffle barely made it near the goalposts. Wood shook his head. They needed so much shooting practice it wasn't even funny.

The ball was easily intercepted by Slytherin and they started encroaching on Wood's team's half of the field. Flint shouted for the ball and once he had it started traveling at the speed of light towards Wood's goalposts. He steadied himself.

"Slug!" he yelled, knowing Flint would know it was directed at him.

One of Gryffindor's Beaters lugged a Bludger at Flint. It hit… ten meters away from where Flint had been and knocked into another Gryffindor player. They had spirit, at least?

Wood crouched low on his broom, ready to leap. In a split second, Flint had hurled the ball at Wood's far left post and Wood rushed to that ring and blocked it with his shoulder.

"Merlin's balls!" he cursed. "Flint, you're a goddamn maggot!"

"You hit my Quaffle, not the other way around," Flint mumbles before turning around to the other side of the field.

Wood stares at his Seeker, who was just sitting there on his broom waiting for something to happen. Said Seeker scratched his head and then inspected his nails for the dandruff he'd pulled away from his scalp.

"Disgusting," Wood muttered. Any of his friends would've known that he was talking more about his Seeker's lack of enthusiasm and less about his Seeker's grooming habits.

All of the Gryffindor players were like this, more or less. They were inexperienced and terrible, and sometimes they made Wood question whether or not Gryffindor would win the cup or not, but then he would shake his head and get back his unfounded and unfailing confidence. Gryffindor was fine. They were fine. They were champions. All that.

Wood watched the Slytherin Beaters fly circles around his Chasers. One of his Beaters approached a Slytherin player from behind and threw the Quaffle that he had somehow acquired through a miracle. It bounced off the Slytherin player without doing much damage.

Yeah, throwing in general needed some work. Flint easily intercepted a pass and started flying back towards Wood. Bring it. He'd already saved, like, five shots from the Slytherins that were on target through sheer willpower and luck. Wood felt like he was single handedly saving this game by keeping it zero to zero, or at least before the Slytherin Seeker spotted the snitch.

Before Wood could really register it, a Quaffle was speeding towards him at what felt like maximum velocity. That was the last thing he could remember.

* * *

"Wanker."

Wood turned to his left towards where the sound had come from.

"Flint."

Flint was lying on the cot next to him with his arm in a cast.

"Why are _you_ here?" Wood asked.

"Your idiot Beaters finally got a hit, I guess. And you're here because you saved a goal with your face."

Wood had a black eye, which only added to the effect of his stink eye.

"So, who won?"


End file.
